Whose Tongue Is Music Now?
by Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: "I pretended that I was as innocent as a white rosebud. I pretended that I had never woken in my bed with the sheets tangled around my legs and Erik's name on my gasping lips. I pretended that I didn't want to lean into Erik's chest and breathe in the spiced sandalwood scent of him." E/C COMPLETE


A/N: And I'm back! I was in the old Shakespeare's complete works again and came across the line that inspired this piece. I hope you all enjoy it-and remember reviews feed the author. :-)

The thing about growing up on the road, and then in an opera house is that it tends to ensure that general innocence is slowly buffed away. It's gradual, a comment here—a look there. A slowly growing knowledge that hands are waiting to grab you in the dark. That being a pretty child, and then later a woman who people find beautiful can be more of a curse than a blessing. Before Erik, I had had my fair share of close encounters, and though he liked to think of me as innocent I had fended off my fair share of attempted assaults. Despite what Erik might have thought, I was fully aware that he was a man…with all the desires that entailed. With one key difference, Erik wouldn't act on his desires. He'd never hurt me, never force me. Though there were times when I might have feared his anger, I never feared the man beneath it.

Because of Erik's love—for that was what it was—I was no longer afraid of the dark. But knowing that he loved me, and doing something about it were two very different things. In opera everything was easier, all the emotions were heightened and desperate. My own heart was more hesitant, not ready to plunge into the all-consuming heat of Erik's love.

And when Erik withdrew as I touched his hand, a low moan escaping his lips, I was aware that my touch meant more to him that the casual affection of a student. I started to crave it. The way his breath would catch, his shoulders tense beneath my palms. The way his pupils dilated when he glanced at me when we sat across the table. The way he smiled when we were together, and his eyes darkened from honey-gold to burnished amber.

So I pretended. It was easier to ignore the quaking of his muscles as I hugged him, and the heat in his gaze as we sang together. Or the way his fingers upon a violin was the most beautiful thing I had ever gazed upon. I needed time to figure out what all of it meant, and more importantly how I felt about it. With Raoul, it was simpler. I granted him the courtesies of childhood friendship. Of windswept beaches and stories told by candlelight in attics. When it got complicated, I pretended that I didn't know that Raoul wanted more from me. I pretended that I was as innocent as a white rosebud. I pretended that I had never woken in my bed with the sheets tangled around my legs and Erik's name on my gasping lips. I pretended that I didn't want to lean into Erik's chest and breathe in the spiced sandalwood scent of him. I pretended that there weren't times as we sat together in his living room that I wanted to straddle his lap and hug him so tightly that neither of us could draw a breath.

I got good at pretending. To Raoul, to Erik, and even to myself. Somehow along the way I had confused and comingled so many of my lies that I ended up completely lost in them. So as Erik tugged me through the labyrinth, I couldn't even blame anyone but myself for the absolute disaster this evening had become.

If I had only controlled myself. If I had only had the courage to tell Raoul that I didn't love him, couldn't love him because my heart was completely entwined with the heart of a twisted man who breathed music over air. Who was now pulling me with an insistent grip that was sure to leave bruises that would break his heart when his anger had faded. It was pitch back in the tunnels, and silent save our breaths.

The crinoline of my salmon pink skirts caught on the walls and I stumbled hard enough to fall forward. Erik caught me. Of course he caught me. He caught me and held me close like a feather he had caught between cupped hands. All I could hear was his breathing.

I had never been good at talking. First, it was because my native Swedish had mastery of my tongue, and then it was out of habit. Silence is a double-edged sword. It is safe. It becomes a habit and a defense mechanism all in one. It gets harder to speak the longer you're quiet. But now I was in Erik's arms. It was too dark for me to see him. I knew he could see me. Erik saw in the dark better than most cats.

So I looked up to where I thought his face must be, and I spoke his name. Not ange, not Opera Ghost. Erik. I tried to convey everything that I felt: penitence, forgiveness, love. Everything that we had been and could be to each other but were too stuck in old patterns to try. I cursed myself for my weakness, and him for his temper. I wanted him to know how desperately I was willing to atone for revealing his most vulnerable parts to an audience.

I could hear his catching sob in the darkness, and as he pulled me closer than we'd ever been I felt the wetness of his tears as he buried his unmasked face into my neck and moaned my name. The texture was one that I immediately committed to memory, each bump and scrape of it cemented in my mind like a melody. I was too shocked to hold him back, my hands floating in the air; fingers ready to grip, yet held back. Still, he was solid against me. How had I ever thought that his slender build meant anything but whippet-firm muscles and elegance of motion? I wanted to stay as we were, this close. This silent. But he remembered himself too soon. He took my hand—a noted improvement over his grip on my wrist—and led me the rest of the way in silence.

As we reached the lake his frenzy seemed to return. He dropped me upon the gondola's pillows without ceremony, muttering about traps. His pupils were almost catlike, his gaze focusing on me with a singular focus. But underneath the focus, I could see the hints of my Erik. The one who was hurt, the one who was terrified of what he had done. Of what he was about to do. It was such a far cry from his usual competence that it scared me.

In his home—I followed him meekly up the shoreline—he stormed through the entryway without removing his shoes. Another marked change from the usual. In months past, I had never seen him so carelessly track sand into his home. He had not even allowed me to wear the shoes I had worn outside past the doorway. I had grown to savor the delicious oddity of it, my stocking feet sliding across the beautiful floors, or padded by the lush carpeting.

I watched him tramp from room to room, and carefully removed my shoes.

He turned to me just as I was setting them down. "What are you doing?"

Feeling suddenly foolish, I dropped my boots by the door. "I don't want to mess up the carpets." I said meekly. Despite my best efforts, my gaze dropped to his feet. Shoes.

He was laughing now, not the resonant chuckle of my Erik, but a high, unhinged, choking sound that echoed strangely off the walls like the cry of a bat. He kicked his shoes off, and they hit the wall with a thump that left black scuffs upon the paint. The violence of it made me flinch. "Come, my considerate one."

He seized me again, and started dragging me down the hall. He was scaring me for the first time. I screamed, and he flinched at the sound, letting go of my wrist and backing away. He was staring at his hand like it didn't belong to him. I turned to run, to escape, to hide somewhere until he returned to himself— My foot caught on one of the many carpets and I fell. He did not catch me, but left me there in a heap. Facedown on the floor. Then, to my horror, I felt his hands on my skirts. I heard the ripping ache of ruined silk, and suddenly felt far more exposed to the air. I was too shocked to move, to breathe. Erik had never touched me without my consent. Never. And now his hands were tugging the lacing of my bodice, tearing my skirts. Now I was face down in my undergarments with a man above me. Because he was a man, a man who wanted me, who I had betrayed. But surely Erik wouldn't… I wore no corset, I was bare beneath the chemise and pantaloons I wore. This was uncharted territory.

Above me there was silence. I rolled so I was propped upon my elbows, and looked at him. There were tears in my eyes, and I did not wipe them away. I held his gaze as they spilled onto my cheeks. Without the tears clouding my vision, I met his gaze once more. I knew I was safe. He was staring at me like I was a work of art, or a star. His pupils were blown wide with desire, and his hands were trembling in space as he groaned.

"Oh Christine," The look in his eyes was undeniable. As was the sound of his voice; I had never heard his perfect timbre so deep. So rough. My name had come from his very soul, scraping every organ on the way up. He wanted. Oh, how he wanted. Oh to be wanted so deeply! His beautiful hands were reaching for me. His bare face arranged in an expression he had never let me see, though I had often felt its power when my back was turned. He fell to his knees with a groan. His gaze was running over me again and again. He didn't know where to start, he didn't know where to keep looking. He lifted his hands, fingers coiled with the struggle of not touching me, and I felt the sharp pain of anticipation as he finally reached forward.

I felt his trembling hands spread across the expanse of my ribs, and lost a gasp at the unintentional touch he grazed against my breasts. My face burned, and there was a strange coiling feeling in my stomach as he suddenly lifted me into his arms. Both my fury and embarrassment were banished. I could feel his breath against my bare skin, my nipples straining at the fabric at the sound of his every moan. It was like my body had missed him. Every wicked thought I had ever had about him, about us, about his hands flooded my mind. I felt my blush creep past my collarbone as my legs parted in subconscious invitation. He noticed, of course he noticed. I could feel his growl rumble through my chest.

Oh God, after everything it had come to this. His golden eyes were wide as I'm sure my own eyes were. This was too much, too soon. Too close, not close enough. I didn't know what I should do, though I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to notch my leg over his hip and pull his full weight down to rest against me. I wanted to guide his hands to the places where I burned. I wanted to rock against his wanting, and tangle my hands in his hair. I went limp instead, too much of a coward to do anything but let him hold me. I wanted him to hold me.

He knew. Erik had always known. He had always known that I knew he loved me. He had always known that I wanted him. I thought anew of all the time we had spent together, and was ashamed. He had not been trying to win me. He knew he already had me if only I would just _admit _that I wanted him. Now, as I lay beneath him, flushed and desirous, he knew that he had me. At least he had my body. He knew that he could do anything he wanted to me. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction—and some regret—as he let me go. He released me and I laid back, breathing hard. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the sound of Erik opening the door to his chamber. I knew because it squeaked no matter how much he tried to fix it. He was searching for something. I heard the frustration in the clatter of doors and the rustle of fabric.

I could have gotten up. I could have probably 'gotten away,' but I didn't see the need anymore. Why should I fight this? Being here. Of course, it was inevitable that Raoul would come after me. His white knight complex was without equal, and this was the ultimate test. Rescuing his love from the monster who lives underground. It was all very Greek, and sure to make an excellent story one day.

This night was shaping up to be the catalyst of something that I had always knew was coming. I would have to grow up. It was a relief as much as it was frightening. "Get up." Erik growled.

"Or what?" I wasn't afraid anymore. He wouldn't hurt me. We both knew it. He thrust a pile of white fabric at me. A dress. A wedding dress.

"The time for this game has come to an end. Dress, I would not want your vicomte to see you in such a state. It's far too precious a gift for his milksop eyes."

I stood on shaking knees and stepped into the dress. It was beautiful. Long lace sleeves, crystal beading and a full skirt. Layers and layers of petticoats. There were buttons down the back; tiny, ivory buttons that started from just between my shoulder blades and went down to the small of my back. "I need you."

He started at my choice of words, almost dropping the gorgeous veil that he held.

"The buttons. You'll have to help me."

I turned. The mirror at the end of the hall reflected the scene. He was behind me, eyes focused with singular purpose on the buttons. It was a form-fitting dress, and each tug of his fingers as he did up each button pulled me closer to him. I had nothing to steady myself on, there was only his soft touch pulling the dress closed. All the way down my back. Stealing my breath. He would not meet my gaze in the mirror. He couldn't look at me at all. Perhaps that was best, because all I could think of was what delectable torture this dress would be to have him remove.

I tried not to think of it. I tried not to think of how tender he would be. I tried not to think of how he would tell me that I was beautiful and how it would feel for him to kiss his way down my back. A kiss for every button. How it would slide from my shoulders and I would step out of it and face him. How his collar would be undone. How if we were married I would have the perfect right to kiss the thrum of his pulse and suck—

I was shaken from my fantasy by his hands upon my shoulders. He turned me to face him, and placed the veil upon my head.

"The perfect bride." He whispered. "What a vision to make. Enough to drive a man to madness. Tell me, Christine, if I kissed you now would you beg me to stop? Would you beg, Christine?"

He was so very close. I could feel his breath on my lips, and longed to bridge the distance.

I blushed anew. He dared a caress to the curve of my cheek. I arched into it. I never had to decide what I was going to do next. A bell went off, startling us both.

"Ah, our guest has arrived!" And he linked our elbows and led me to the sitting room.

Raoul. He was standing awkwardly in the center of the room, dripping wet and holding a pistol. The pistol was also dripping, so I figured that at this point it was nothing more than ornamental. He looked…pathetic. His teeth were chattering, his blond hair hung over his forehead in wet locks. He was every bit the prince with his shirtsleeves and vest, water dripping down his revealed neck.

It was my response that was inappropriate, even though I had known he would come, I still found myself asking. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to rescue you." He rushed to me, and took me into his arms. I felt nothing, in fact, I felt uncomfortable. My cheek against his wet chest. The heartbeat beneath my ears was not the one I dreamed about.

"Has he hurt you? My God, Christine—you make a beautiful bride. If only the circumstances were different…"

"I—I…." I sought out Erik, who was watching from by the mantlepiece.

"Yes, De Chagny; we would both rather this take place under different circumstances. Rest assured she is still virginal as she looks…almost."

"You monster, what have you done?"

"Nothing unwanted, I assure you." Erik purred.

Raoul raised his pistol in Erik's direction.

"Raoul! Don't!" I acted before I could think and grabbed onto his arm. He dropped his weapon and I kicked it across the floor. I was extremely grateful that my supposition regarding the gunpowder had been correct, but my heart was racing nonetheless. Raoul had been going to shoot him.

"You're protecting him—why?"

But I barely heard him, my eyes were fixed on Erik. Raoul could barely look at him, his features roiled with disgust. But I could see Erik's surprise in the slight raise of his eyebrows.

"And here I had thought that more drastic measures would have to be taken. What a happy accident that your fiancée is the one to disarm you, _vicomte_. Such an operatic prelude to the ultimatum tonight."

"What do you mean, Erik?"

"Tonight, my dearest, you will choose once and for all."

"Fiend," Raoul growled, "She's my fiancée; she's already made her choice."

Oh. I stared at the floor. I looked at Raoul, then at Erik. Then the floor again.

"Haven't you? Christine?"

I couldn't find my voice, and turned imploring eyes to Erik. I no longer knew what I was begging him for. How could I when I wanted him so much, but couldn't decide if there was love beneath our intrinsic connection. I longed for his darkness as a prisoner longs for freedom, but I wanted it to be for the right reasons. Because he loved me, and Raoul loved me. They each loved me in such different ways. Raoul's love was gentle and bright as a bouquet of daffodils. If I chose him, things would be easy. I would be Little Lotte forever, in a veritable castle with a man who would never hurt me. But I cared enough for Raoul to want to keep him safe from me. If he weren't enough for me, it would ruin him. He'd always blame himself. I'd always wonder. And Erik…

Erik with his honey-gold eyes and his music. The desire that poured off of him in waves with every glance. The way he stared at me like he wanted to set the world according to my whims. He would burn the stars, he would die trying to chase the moon for me. And he saw _me_. He saw me as I was now: a compilation of a life well lived, my trauma and my dreams. He had seen the want in my eyes, felt the lack of resistance in my body. He knew I lacked courage, that I was too impulsive, and that I was terrified. He knew I loved music more than anything and he understood why. He knew I wasn't perfect, but thought I was perfect for him. I had hurt him again and again and he had never stopped fighting to convince me that his battle was justified. He never would stop, but he wanted me to be happy.

The carpet that I was staring at began to blur with my tears. Erik was speaking again.

"With _undue_ respect, if she had chosen she would not have sang tonight in my opera. She would not have participated in a _secret_ engagement, and the two of you would be wed and currently living happily ever after. Did you not think it strange that she never revealed the precise location of my home, or told you that this is not by any means her first night here? No, sir. I am not the more deluded of us."

"Christine, is this true."

"Raoul—I." I what? I agree? I don't know. I have nothing to say for myself. I could hardly explain that the Erik I knew far surpassed the opera ghost. I could hardly say that the stories I had told Raoul had omitted such details as me curling up by the fire as Erik read me to sleep. Or that there had been nights in this very house where I had woken with Erik's name on my lips. That there had been years of lessons and conversations and jokes through mirrors and walls until finally he had revealed himself. And the music—

"He's a monster, he kidnapped you. Lied to you. Spied from behind mirrors at all hours—pretended to be an angel."

"You try my patience, vicomte. Silence. Let her decide."

There was no sound but my soft sobs and the ticking of the grandfather clock. I stood equidistant between two men that loved me, and I was too terrified to look at either of them. The ticking of the clock was an excruciating accompaniment to my own heart as I closed my eyes and prayed to God to give me guidance. And it felt obscene to read the sudden answer that echoed through my mind. Erik had once lamented the unknown pleasures of a kiss.

A kiss. The madness kept growing with the fairytales that I had been told all my life. A kiss, the princess always knows by a kiss. I had kissed Raoul before, but no one else. Not for real. So it stood to reason that the only way to compare any of this would be to—

And my lips were on Erik's, because I had been walking without realizing. They were warm and abnormal, and the shock of it made us both pull back. I stared into the wells of his eyes, his shock reflecting mine. And somehow we were kissing again. We were kissing again, and he had seized my waist in his beautiful hands, then followed the line of buttons up to tangle his fingers in my hair. How could I have gone so long without this? Every molecule of my body was screaming for more. More! And my hands were creeping towards him without permission and cupping his face. Stroking his cheekbones with my thumbs. I could taste our combined tears on his lips as I slipped my tongue into his mouth. Erik, Erik—how could I have…

But he was pushing me away. His hand was over his lips. I know how he was feeling. It was like my lips were no longer my own. We had branded each other. Traded possession for possession. His lips were mine. I couldn't speak, I couldn't understand.

"Go." He roared. For a horrified second I thought that he meant me, and I almost wept at it. I fell to my knees before him, a silent supplicant begging for mercy. But he wasn't looking at me. I turned and saw Raoul, who's disgust had twisted his face into something unhandsome. Who was staring at the both of us like we had grown three other heads.

"Raoul…" But I couldn't say that I was sorry. I wasn't.

Without saying another word, Raoul turned and left. It was the kindest thing that he had ever done for me. The door closed with a click behind him. Erik locked it, and turned back to me. There was a new energy between us. A still awkwardness now that we knew each other's flavor.

I removed my veil, just to keep from looking at him. He sat beside me on the carpet. We stared into the flames for what seemed like forever.

"You chose me." He whispered. "I hadn't thought that you would."

"I did. I do." What a relief to chose at last. To know that everything was going to be okay.

"You kissed me. A living bride."

A nervous giggle escaped me. "You kissed me too."

"No," He grabbed my hand. "No one has ever kissed me, let alone touched me with kindness. Thank you."

This was it. This was the opportunity to tell him everything that I never could.

I couldn't.

I kissed his marred cheek, then his perfect one. I kissed the seam of his imperfections, traced the curve of his jaw with my fingers. I kissed both sides of his mouth and the tip of his twisted nose. I kissed him and savored every last gasp and moan that spilled from his lips. I kissed the hollow of his throat and felt his pulse jump beneath my lips.

"My Erik." I said. _Mine._

"Only ever yours, Christine." He agreed. "Always." I buried my face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent of sandalwood.

"I need to tell you something." I whispered into his chest. But he heard. He always heard.

"Anything."

"You always wanted me to see you as a man. I always have, that's why things were so hard for me. I—I wanted more from you than I could ever begin to understand. You love me so much, I was afraid that…whatever I felt for you it wouldn't be enough to," I swallowed, "That _I_ wouldn't be enough. I wanted to be sure I could…give you everything."

"Christine—"

"Your love scared me. You made me want things—oh such things Erik, if you could know the things I've imagined. The things I've done with your name on my lips."

Erik's groan shook my ribcage, and rampant heat raced through my bloodstream.

"Christine, be careful what you tell me. This monster burns for you."

"I want you. I've wanted you for a long time, but I didn't know if it were for the right reasons. I didn't know that I loved you until tonight."

"Love, Christine?"

"Yes." And I found the courage to look at him at last. "I love you, Erik."

He pulled me onto his lap and buried his face in my hair. He made no attempt to shield me from the proof of his desire and I shuddered with the thrill of it.

"Enough to consent to be mine? Enough to marry me, to share my bed, to allow me to worship you with this scarred body and repugnant face?"

"I love your face. I want your body. I am yours."

"Christine, I love you. Do not toy with me if you don't mean it."

"I mean it," and I captured his mouth with mine, tasting the seam of his lips, swallowing his moans. Mine, mine, mine. "I love you, Erik." I promised.

He did not say any more, and I was filled with the absolutely delicious satisfaction of knowing he believed me. My Erik. Mine.


End file.
